Where's Barry?

Had a crush in highschool on a girl named Barry.   Mush have been my junior or senior year.  New girl in town.  Year younger than me.  And possessed of the kind of southern accent that can still poke a finger in my brain.  Wonderful.  Her voice alone just made me so happy and weak and stupid. 

Called her on a grocery store work break one weekend morning from the pay phone in the drug store on the corner.  When she answered with that fabulous, judgment-damaging accent, I said a lot of nice things from my heart -- nothing salacious, but, you know, personal, sweet and one hoped endearing.  Went on for a bit.

Then she said, 'that's very nice, but this is Barry's mother.'  Kind of thing you never forget.

I wonder where Barry is.

Catastrophe porn

from Bay Citizen story  today on the San Bruno gas explosion and fire that killed four and burned several dozen homes:

"Those who called Crestmoor home -- many for decades -- know that nothing here will ever be the same."

For example, from now on in Crestmoor mastodons will roam the streets and nothing will ever seem to grow.  Nights will be full of the sounds of moans and screams.  And the spoken language will probably be Hungarian.

This raises again the misuse of 'tragic'.  This awful accident wasn't tragic -- unless it turns out that, say, one of the dead people was in charge of pipeline safety for PG&E.  I would argue this might be a calamity, but tragedy needs the involvement of destiny or fate, damnit.

Other words proscribed by Tom in this coverage:
-- nightmare  
-- heartbreak

Do I have to do everything around here?